


standard operating procedure

by buckgaybarnes



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: (but like...it's a scalpel....Scalpel Play), Anal Sex, Biology Kink, Body Exploration, Dirty Talk, Finger Sucking, First Time, Gloves, Knifeplay, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Nipple Play, Restraints, Science, Sexual Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:34:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22577125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckgaybarnes/pseuds/buckgaybarnes
Summary: Newton follows laboratory safety protocols for the first time in years. Hermann is much more affected than he'd anticipated.(or: hermann realizes he kind of wants newt to rearrange his guts like a kaiju sample)
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Comments: 15
Kudos: 149





	standard operating procedure

**Author's Note:**

> i have nothing to say for myself. enjoy!

It starts, innocuously enough, in the laboratory. They had a “surprise” safety inspection this morning, the sort that used to be monthly when they had funding, but has been long since demoted to an annual excuse for the PPDC to check off some boxes; whereas Hermann couldn’t even be assed to wake up in time for it, and subsequently slept right through it, Newton was in attendance and evidently felt particularly _inspired_ by OSHA. He’s donned his lab coat overtop his ridiculous skinny jeans, for the first time in what Hermann's certain is years. (It's spotless, though entirely due to lack of use and not at all because he ever does his laundry.) He's actually wearing his silly-looking prescription work goggles. He’s swapped his clear plastic gloves out for the protective blue nitrile kind. He's cleaned his work tools, his entire half of the lab, and even some of Hermann's (for which Hermann is begrudgingly grateful). Hell—he’s even tied his _tie_ properly.

The resulting image—Newton, a proper scientist, wielding his shining scalpel and bent over his work with the usual single-minded determination he reserves for nothing but his beloved samples—makes something warm and unnerving stir in the pit of Hermann’s stomach, and he halts in the lab doorway before he’s even got one foot in.

Newton does not look up. “Morning, dude,” he says.

“Newton,” Hermann says. He swallows, twice. “Ah—you’re in early.”

“Inspection was today,” Newton says. “Remembered.”

He only ever speaks in small sentences when he’s this focused, Hermann knows; he claims it’s a habit he picked up to make listening back to his audio notes easier. Less to wade through to get to the important stuff. Sure enough, Hermann can see his tape recorder poking out of the top pocket of the lab coat. “It is,” Hermann agrees.

Newton makes a long incision in the purpleish membrane of what looks like a kaiju’s lung, and Hermann is shocked with the careful ease with which he does it. (Newton is _always_ this careful and confident with his work, Hermann reminds himself—this is nothing _new_. Why is it affecting him so bloody badly today?) “Something wrong?” Newton says. “Need something?”

Another incision. Smooth, straight-lined, perfectly even. He digs his fingers beneath the top layer of the membrane and peels it back, just as smoothly, just as evenly. Hermann’s throat tightens. “No,” he says.

Newton begins to grope around in the newly-revealed cavity with a series of stomach-churning squishes. In seconds, he seems to find what he’s looking for: he hums, squeezes a few times, and says something into the tape recorder, though Hermann’s not quite sure what. His pulse is pounding too loudly in his ears for him to make it out.

“You’re quite good with your hands,” he says, faintly.

Hermann has never considered his sexual tastes to be beyond the norm, never, ah, _esoteric_ , and the childhood he spent in and out of operating rooms and specialized doctors’ offices for his leg has left him with quite the _distaste_ for anything medical. Yet (as he watches Newton) he finds himself inexplicably wanting nothing more than to be presented on that same cold, metal table, left to the mercy of Newton’s scrutinizing gaze (turned entirely on _him_ for a change), his sure, skillful, _gloved_ fingers, the cold blade of that scalpel sliding over and over his skin—

Perhaps there is something in Hermann’s voice—something of wretched, humiliating _arousal_ —that makes Newton pause and consider Hermann as he does. He clicks his tape recorder off.

“Would you like to come to my room, Hermann?” he says.

* * *

Hermann would.

“If I’d known,” Newton begins, and Hermann shakes his head.

“Don’t,” he rasps. “Treat me as if—”

“I talk to all my samples,” Newton says, but he mimes zipping up his mouth and finishes loosely knotting his tie around Hermann’s wrists. It was the only thing they had on hand to serve as restraints that would not hurt—Hermann’s not a _deviant_ , of course, he doesn’t keep handcuffs or whatever bloody else laying about, but he’s a little surprised Newton doesn’t either. Newton seems the sort to like it. “Lie back,” he murmurs.

Hermann obeys him.

Newton’s room is messy, well lived-in. He has dirty laundry spread about the floor and draped over the back of his desk chair; monster movie posters in three different languages plastered to the drab cement walls; a bowl of guitar picks on the dresser; action figures and manga and half-full molding coffee cups and vinyl record sleeves strewn about every available surface. The contrast to his spotless and well-groomed appearance now is dizzying. 

The overhead fluorescent light is shut off. So is the bedside lamp. Newton’s small LED headlamp takes its place, angled down at Hermann. It is dark in the room but for that.

Hermann hears the click of the tape recorder. “Twenty-six, September, 2023,” Newton says, in a cool tone of scientific detachment. “Specimen ID Dr. Hermann Gottlieb. Species: _mathematician_. Age thirty-four.” A small, bitten-back laugh. “Judging by the, uh, _protective shell_ I’ve already removed—” He plucks at the balled-up pile of Hermann’s sweatervest, which is quite moth-eaten and in terrible need of a laundering, really. “—a complete lack of mating experience can be safely assumed.”

“ _Hardly_ ,” Hermann says.

This time, Newton snickers. “Correction: protective shell is considered _highly desirable_ to fellow mathematicians.” He gives a thoughtful hum. “And maybe some biologists.” There’s a rubbery _snap_ , then another; Hermann catches a flash of blue nitrile in the blinding light. One smooth, cool hand settles itself upon his cheek, fingers curling and gripping. Hermann’s jaw is forced up, not ungently. “Good bone structure.” A thumb grazes his lower lip, then pushes past it; Hermann sucks obediently around the rubber. “Nice, wide mouth,” Newton marvels. “Pretty, too.” He pokes his index finger in alongside his thumb and stretches the two sides of Hermann’s mouth until it aches. “Would need further testing to confirm, but preliminary observations suggest I could fit a _whole_ lot in there.”

He presses down on Hermann’s tongue, forcing it from his mouth, and Hermann bites back a small, keening whine. Newton probes deeper until his fingertips are practically brushing Hermann’s throat. “No gag reflex,” Newton says, and Hermann hears him swallow thickly. “That’s—hm. That’s good to know.” Newton’s hand slips away to caress his throat instead, then settles at the dip of Hermann’s collarbones. Hermann can feel how badly he’s shaking. “I’ll need to remove the outer layer for further analysis.”

His scalpel—thoroughly cleaned and sanitized—glints in the light as he positions it (with his left hand) at the bottom button of Hermann’s freshly untucked Oxford, which he holds taut and a safe distance from Hermann’s skin (with his right hand). Hermann hears him take a short, shuddering breath; he feels him steady himself. Hermann takes a deep breath, too. Newton glides the scalpel up.

Hermann’s buttons are severed smoothly from his Oxford in one single, fluid motion, and fall to Newton’s bed with small _ping_ s; then, as if the fabric were yet another sickly-colored kaiju membrane, Newton carefully peels back the sides to reveal Hermann’s bare chest.

“Gorgeous,” he breathes. (Hermann would be flattered if he didn't hear Newton regularly toss that same compliment out at decaying kaiju organs.) A gloved index finger traces down from Hermann’s sternum to his bellybutton. “Specimen has an _innie_.” Then, a little sarcastically, “Specimen could also benefit from eating a few pancakes every now and then, because his regular diet consists of cigarettes and instant coffee and he is one _skinny_ son of a bitch.” He pokes Hermann’s ribs. “Skin and bones, dude.”

“Shut it,” Hermann grumbles.

“In my humble scientific opinion,” Newton clarifies. His hand glides back up and settles over top Hermann’s right pectoral; the touch of the rubber, still cool, combined with the frigid air of Newton’s bunk— “Specimen is _sensitive_ ,” Newton says, and he pinches Hermann’s stiffening nipple between two fingers.

White-hot pleasure courses instantly down to the pit of Hermann’s stomach, to the half-hard prick in the confines of his trousers; he arches from the bed into Newton’s touch. “ _Ah_ —!”

“ _Very_ sensitive,” Newton says, and begins happily pinching away at the other too. “Mm, do you like that?” He rolls the pads of his thumbs over the small peaks, and when Hermann, er, responds _positively_ , switches off his headlamp and dips his head down to graze his teeth and flick his tongue lazily over one.

“ _Newton_ ,” Hermann whines. He squirms, desperately, trying to pull his hands from the tie to _grab_ , to rub against Newton’s thigh and relieve _some_ of the tension in his prick. Newton is aroused, too—he can feel the bulge of his skinny jeans through his lab coat. This is getting him off as much as it's getting Hermann off. “Ah, ah—”

Newton stills him with a hard bite and pulls away, to Hermann’s distress. “Sensitive, and impatient,” he remarks (almost teasingly) into his tape recorder. Then it’s back to business. The headlamp is switched back on. “Specimen’s pupils have dilated,” he says. He presses his thumb to the pulse-point of Hermann’s neck. “Heart rate’s risen by, hm, at least sixty percent. Removing lower outer layer.”

Hermann’s trousers are unbuttoned and slid, carefully, down and off his legs. The scalpel makes a reappearance for his undergarments, which are sliced open at the seams and ripped off with far less grace than his shirt had been; Newton, it seems, is getting impatient too. Hermann groans when the cold air falls on his prick, and Newton groans similarly. “Specimen,” he squeaks, “uh, specimen has a nice penis. Estimate—at least seven inches, when erect. Definitely more.” Generous, but Hermann’s not going to say anything.

There’s a small _snap_ as Newton opens a bottle of what Hermann knows to be surgical lubricant from the large first aid kit in the lab. It’s been missing for months—of _course_ Newton made off with it for his own nefarious sexual purposes. Cold, lubricant-slick rubber wraps around Hermann’s prick before he can dwell for too long. “Circumcised,” Newton croaks. He strokes up the length once, twice, tightening his fingers on the third. Hermann whimpers. “Incredibly responsive,” he adds, dragging his thumb over the precome that beads at Hermann’s slit, rubbing it between that and his index finger, and raising it up to his goggles for a better look. Hermann watches his pink tongue dart out over it with a tingling, shivering thrill.

“Right,” Newton says. “Let’s spread those legs, gorgeous.”

He leaves Hermann’s left leg alone, but hoists the right one up over his shoulder, leaving Hermann feeling quite _exposed_ , especially under Newton’s scrutinizing gaze. Newton makes an exaggerated noise of surprise. “ _Shocking_ new evidence suggests that Hermann Gottlieb does _not_ have a stick lodged permanently up his asshole, as many in the past—myself included—have theorized. ”

“Ha,” Hermann says.

“Bony ankles,” Newton continues, “skinny calves,” and then, once he’s got Hermann arranged to his liking, plants a little kiss at his knee and draws his tape recorder out of his pocket. “I’m going to examine Specimen Hermann Gottlieb’s anal cavity,” he declares into it, and Hermann wrinkles his nose _just a bit_ at the phrasing, “beginning with one finger, and working up to an, uh, _larger_ probe.” He tucks the recorder away again.

He pours more lubricant out onto his gloved finger and puffs hot air over it, as if to warm it for Hermann, and slowly lowers it between Hermann’s legs. He gently cups and strokes Hermann’s scrotum, first, _hm_ ing under his breath as if determining something of great import, then pets at the too-sensitive skin of his perineum, then finally alights just over his entrance. He rubs slowly at the pucker, slow enough to drive Hermann _mad_ , and—just as Hermann’s getting ready to cry, beg, shout, _something_ for more—Newton plunges in to the second knuckle. Hermann’s eyes widen; he gives a strangled cry. “Oh—!”

Newton, to Hermann’s surprise (and to his slight literally-blinding astonishment, for Newton neglects to shut off the headlamp this time), ducks down to take Hermann’s earlobe between his teeth and bite. “Yeah, you like that?” he murmurs.

His voice is rough—nearly an octave deeper than the high-pitched scratchiness Hermann is used to—and _by Jove_ , does it affect Hermann like nothing else. He hadn’t known Newton could sound...well, like that _._ “Yes,” he moans.

“You want a little more?” Newton says in that same strange, amorous voice, and he nuzzles behind Hermann’s ear, his stubble scratching like nothing else, the cold plastic of his goggles pressing against him almost painfully. “You want me to fill you up?”

“ _Yes_.”

Newton’s finger pushes in deeper; Hermann squirms, desperately, until he feels the final knuckle settle snugly against his rim. “Nice and tight,” Newton remarks, and Hermann cannot decide whether it’s meant for him or the tape recorder. He’s not sure if he cares. “Let’s see if we can fit another in there, huh?”

He does. He also—with some encouragement from Hermann, who finds himself writhing and whimpering like never before, so wanton he feels he ought to be _some_ sort of embarrassed—fits a third. “Specimen taking it like a _champ_ ,” he remarks.

Hermann means to level him with a glare, but Newton’s middle finger brushes a very pleasing spot within him and he curses, _loudly_ , instead. “Oh, there, _again_ —!”

Newton’s tongue darts back to his earlobe, and he rubs his finger over the same spot. Hermann’s whole body tenses as white-hot pleasure shoots up his spine, and a small bead of precome rolls down his prick. “ _Very_ pleasing results when I stimulate the prostate,” Newton practically purrs. He curls all three fingers, then uncurls them, brushing feather-light over his prostate once more. Hermann’s whole body begins to tremble. “I bet we could try for a fourth, too. You want a fourth one, baby?”

“No,” Hermann gasps. “I want—” He lifts his left thigh to press against the stiff front of Newton’s jeans, and hears a sharp intake of breath. “I want you to—”

“Shy,” Newton says to the recorder. “Cute.”

“I want you to bugger me,” Hermann says.

Newton unbuckles his jeans so quickly that Hermann barely has time to react before the three lube-slick fingers are out of him and wrapped around Newton’s prick instead. He’s aroused, so much so it looks painful, and he presents a very lovely sight: prick flushed and wet, poking out from that spotless lab coat and a blue rubber grip. White button-down straining over the bit of pudge at his stomach. The hint of tattoos each time his lab coat sleeves rides up and reveals the small patch of skin above the nitrile glove. With the hand not hoisting Hermann’s leg up, Newton strokes himself to full hardness, headlamp aimed between Hermann’s spread thighs to properly _scrutinize_ him. “Lay still,” he commands. “Gotta do the, uh—final tests.”

He pushes in halfway to the hilt with a loud grunt, then drops his forehead against Hermann’s shoulder as Hermann forces himself to relax and open around him. “ _Fuck_ ,” he whines, and then fumbles for the tape recorder (which is slipping from his top pocket), “sp-specimen Hermann Gottlieb’s got a nice, tight little—”

“ _Move_ ,” Hermann cuts across in a gasp, “in or out, I don’t bloody care, _move_.”

Newton pushes the rest of the way in; Hermann echoes Newton’s grunt, arching his back from the bed unconsciously, and Newton hoists Hermann’s leg higher until his knee is crooked over his shoulder. “‘S _good_ ,” he says. Hermann can see him screwing his eyes up tightly behind his goggles. “Oh, fuck, fuck—”

Hermann has two hypotheses of his own confirmed when Newton braces himself on the bed and begins to bugger him in earnest: the first, that he is just as precise and passionate in this as he is his lab work (and Hermann counts his lucky stars that he’s been blessed with a lab partner so _skilled_ in biology), and the second, that he is just as _noisy_ in it as Hermann expected. 

“I’ve wanted to do this for like, eighty years,” Newton whines in his ear, “guh, it’s all I ever—all I ever _think_ about, I just want—” The hand holding up Hermann’s thigh slips back up to his jaw, and the fingers are jammed unceremoniously back into Hermann’s mouth; Hermann, not displeased at the intrusion, laps his tongue over them obediently. Newton has nice, sturdy fingers, and even through the gloves Hermann can feel the calluses that have built up over the years from playing the guitar. “Yeah, shit, perfect, get ‘em wet…”

_Why_ , Hermann wonders, and then Newton squares his shoulders, braces himself fully on his knees, and draws the spit-slick fingers out to wrap around Hermann’s neglected prick instead. When he speaks, he manages to recollect some of his smooth, scientific detachment of before—all that betrays him is the slight trembling undertone. Nerves or overwhelming arousal, Hermann can’t decide. “I’ll n-need a sample, of course,” he says, as he works his hips and Hermann’s prick simultaneously. He drags his thumb over the slit again on one particularly filling downstroke, curly, badly-tamed pubic hair brushing Hermann’s skin, and Hermann whimpers. “And, uh, y’know—maybe just, uh, just a little more data.”

The other glove is still wet with lubricant, which Hermann discovers intimately when Newton begins to wriggle his index finger in alongside his prick. Hermann chokes back a shout. “N-Newton, what are you—?”

“Seeing how much I can get in,” Newton says. He thrusts his prick and finger in and out of Hermann in tandem, working more of the latter in each time, until—to Hermann’s increasing pleased vocalizations—he manages to fit it snugly all the way in. Hermann feels full; dizzy; _overstimulated_ , because Newton is still sliding his fingers messily over Hermann’s prick. Hermann’s not even sure if he knows he’s doing it. “Able to, uh, shit, withstand,” Newton pants, “withstand intense stretching.” He rocks his hips again, slowly, and stinging tears spring to Hermann’s eyes at how marvelous it feels. “And can t-take _all_ of my cock—”

The filthy word coming from Newton’s mouth shouldn’t surprise Hermann—the man’s certainly said far worse under far less appropriate circumstances—but combined with the _debasement_ of being talked about in such a cold way, the sensation of being spread wide and tied up and filled and _recorded_ , even, on Newton’s bloody tape recorder, for Newton to listen back to as he pleased— He tosses his head back and comes on his stomach with a sharp cry, possibly of Newton’s name, and inadvertently clenches around Newton, who begins swearing loudly.

“Okay,” Newton says, voice high, drawing out his index finger, “okay, okay, I’m just gonna—”

He tosses the tape recorder aside for a second time, jerks both of Hermann’s legs up, and begins to fuck into him with _far_ less grace than before. Though he makes up for it with excitement. “That’s so fucking good,” he pants, “ _you’re_ so fucking good, Hermann, ah, _ah_ —”

He presses his face to Hermann’s knee when he orgasms, though he’s not half as loud as Hermann had been (which Hermann thinks he ought to feel embarrassed about, being louder than _Newton_ ), and then slumps forward onto Hermann’s chest.

When the contact quickly moves from _pleasant_ to _uncomfortable,_ for Newton’s still layered up in all his lab gear and as warm as a small furnace, Hermann works on freeing his hands from Newton’s tie with a great deal of wiggling. He succeeds, and prods Newton’s shoulder.

“I can’t breathe,” he says.

“Oops,” Newton says.

He rolls to the side.

Neither of them speak for some time: Hermann, too embarrassed, and Newton, clearly feeling extremely awkward. Hermann’s half-considering just walking out and counting on Newton never, ever speaking of this again, when the click from Newton’s tape recorder on the floor (where it must have slipped from his pocket) makes them both start.

Newton strips off his soiled nitrile gloves and headlamp, swaps his goggles for his usual glasses from the nightstand, and rolls over to retrieve the recorder. He laughs. “Holy shit, I forgot to shut it off. We used up a whole tape!” He presses the _rewind_ button, and holds it in for a few moments; when he releases it, Hermann’s hit with the _mortifying_ sound of his own wanton moans, Newton’s deep, erotic grunts, and the unmistakable slick sounds of Newton moving in him. He flushes instantly.

“Shut that off!”

Newton’s mouth creeps up into a devious grin. He presses _pause_. “I’ll need to hold onto this,” he says, and waves the recorder. “For my lab notes, of course. Need to make an accurate transcription for my monthly report to Pentecost.”

“Don't even _joke_ about that, you wretched little man.”

Newton slings an arm over Hermann’s waist and drags him forward; to Hermann’s surprise, he presents a small, chaste kiss to his neck, and holds him in place. He hadn’t expected Newton to be the cuddly sort post-coitus. It suits him, somehow. “Mm, the breakthrough that Hermann Gottlieb is a kinky old bastard is going to rock the scientific community,” he mumbles. “I can barely believe it myself. Nobel Prize, here I come.” Another kiss. “You doing okay? Anything hurting? Leg fine?”

Hermann’s sore, but it’s the pleasing kind of soreness that comes from a nice romp rather than over-exerting himself. He nods. “I’m a bit tired, is all.”

“I sure wore you out, huh?” Newton says.

Hermann glances back to see Newton giving him a proud smile. Hermann can see no harm in stoking the fires of Newton’s (admittedly gargantuan) ego and admitting the truth, especially if it means Newton will let him stay a little while: half of Hermann’s clothing is quite destroyed and he doesn’t exactly fancy waddling back to his bunk in tatters. Perhaps he'll send Newton to do it for him. “You did,” he agrees. 

“Yeah, I’m pretty good at sex,” Newton says, smugly, and Hermann struggles not to roll his eyes. “Next time I’ll suck your dick. I’ve been practicing, you know—” He mimes deep-throating a penis, or at least Hermann presumes that’s what he’s miming. “—getting it in all the way. You can be my first non-dildo test subject.”

“Your test subject,” Hermann echoes, feeling another little spike of arousal—but weaker this time, because he’s not half as young as he used to be, of course—in the pit of his stomach. Then he furrows his eyebrows. “Next time?”

“Next time we have sex,” Newton says, matter of fact.

“Oh,” Hermann says. “Yes—yes, that’d be _fine_.”

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr at hermannsthumb and horny twitter at hermanngayszler, where u must be 18+ to follow


End file.
